


The Heart Never Forgets

by athousandsmiles



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, Amnesia, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Modern AU, No Curse, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 11:54:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3066914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athousandsmiles/pseuds/athousandsmiles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She feels like a newborn baby moving painfully into the world for the first time. Who will claim her, and who will give her a name? Because right now, she knows next to nothing, not even who she is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heart Never Forgets

**Author's Note:**

> I read a really adorable Captain Swan fic the other day, and inspiration struck and so here we are. This is also based on the movie, "The Vow," (which I actually hated), so if you've seen that, you get the gist. Except I wanted to skip all the relationship drama from the movie. Also the title comes from a Leann Rimes song.
> 
> Written as a gift for heartundone on LJ for the magical stockings challenge at onceuponaland. It's due tomorrow, so I haven't had a chance to get it beta'd. Will get to work on that after the reveal.

She wakes to the faint rhythmic beeping of the machines next to her and everything is a haze, from the room she's in to the feel of her own skin. Her voice comes out in a quiet rasp when she tries to call out to someone, anyone. The beeping speeds up as panic sets in and a flurry of hospital staff rushes in to the room, and at least it's something familiar, something she knows, even if that doesn't calm her the tiniest bit. 

She feels like a newborn baby moving painfully into the world for the first time. Who will claim her, and who will give her a name? Because right now, she knows next to nothing, not even who she is. 

Later, when she's been poked and prodded, questioned and examined to within an inch of her life, she settles back against the pillow, pulls the thin blanket up to her shoulders, and tries desperately not to cry. They've given her a name, reassured her that it most definitely belongs to her, and it's the worst feeling to know that these strangers know more about her than she knows about herself. But apparently, she is 28 year old Emma Swan Jones and she has amnesia after crashing head first through the windshield of a car. Her husband, they said, is recovering from surgery and will be fine. 

Her husband. Those words set off another round of panic as she notices the small silver band on her ring finger. Someone belongs to her and she belongs to him, and the thought is a tiny bit comforting and a whole lot terrifying. 

While she is ruminating on who he might be, there is a soft, hesitant knock on the jamb of her open door. A woman and a man step in with hushed exclamations of worry, engulfing her in gentle hugs and caresses to her hair. Both of them are teary-eyed as they stand beside her bed, holding on to each other's hands and looking down at her, and Emma has no idea who they are or how she's supposed to react. 

Finally, the man pulls a chair forward for the woman and eases her down into it as he speaks. "Emma, the doctor told us you have amnesia." 

"Yes. I'm sorry, I…. Who are you?"

"We're your parents," the man says, smiling softly at her, and Emma wants to pull the blanket over her head like a small child and hide, because if she wasn't ready for a husband, she's not ready for parents either. 

"We probably should've started with that information," the woman (her mom?) says, reaching forward and taking Emma's hand gently between her own.

She has parents, even if she feels like an orphan. She doesn't know whether that fact makes things worse or better. They're attractive people, like straight out of a fairy tale attractive; her mother with short dark hair and lovely eyes, and her father with his blond hair and blue eyes. But other than the fact they could be the living embodiment of Snow White and Prince Charming which is kind of cute, Emma feels nothing. Well, maybe she feels the tiniest bit of guilt for not knowing these lovely people who seem to care so much. 

"I'm sorry," she says, and her voice is raspy from disuse. "I don't remember you."

"Nothing to be sorry about," her father says, resting a comforting hand on her shoulder and smiling down at her with such love in his eyes, it makes her ache a little inside her chest. "We're just glad you're okay otherwise. You'll get your memories back."

"Yes," her mother interjects. "You just have to have hope."

Emma thinks that's a bit naive, but just nods politely and tries to stifle a yawn. She is bone tired and sore and just wants to be alone for a while to process everything.

"Well, we'll let you rest for now," her mother adds, releasing her hand and rising from the chair with all the grace of a queen. "We're going to check in on Killian and then we'll come back tomorrow to see you both."

"We'll bring Neal. He's very worried about you," her father says, and leans down to press a quick kiss to her forehead.

She has no idea who Killian or Neal are, and her confusion must show on her face, because her father quickly explains, "Killian is your husband and Neal is your younger brother."

Emma nods, but feels particularly stupid that she can't remember the people in her life, especially with the way her mother is looking now, so terribly saddened as she pats Emma on the knee.

"We'll see you tomorrow."

As they leave the room, Emma exhales as if she's been holding her breath through the entirety of their visit. A few tears leak out through her lids as she closes her eyes and drifts off to sleep. 

***********

Emma wakes to a weight on her arm, and a head of dark hair tickling her skin. She nudges Dark Hair and he stirs, looking up and blinking at her with a sleepy smile. His face is… well, it leaves her breathless for a moment, his vivid blue eyes locked on hers. In her admittedly short memory, she's sure his face is the most beautiful thing she's ever seen, despite the bruises and the fresh cut across his right cheek and the three days worth of whiskers along his jawline.

"Emma," he says, hand grasping at hers as he sits up. "I was so worried, love."

He's got an accent, a lovely lilting, elegant accent that's very unexpected and strangely endearing.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, tilting her head to watch as he brings her hand to his mouth to press a sweet kiss there. "I don't know who…."

"I know. They told me you don't remember anything. Not even me."

She flinches a little at the vulnerability in his eyes, surprised at the longing within her to comfort this absurdly handsome stranger.

"I'm Killian," he continues, adding with a wink, "your devilishly handsome husband."

It's then that she realizes he's stroking his thumb across the silver band around her finger. She watches the motion, mesmerized; and it makes her feel all warm inside and so so confused because she doesn't know him, can't remember a single thing about him and yet she feels safe and tingly and comfortable with him touching her so intimately. And all at once, everything is too much. Like his gentle touch is the snowflake that sets off the avalanche of emotions within her and she finds herself suddenly sobbing, great gulping, rib crunching sobs that she can't contain. 

He pulls her into his embrace and she clings, sighing into him as one of his hands slides up into her hair to cradle her head as she cries. She can't remember what home feels like, but this just might be it, here in the shelter of his arms. He's murmuring words of reassurance into her ear, soft warm puffs of breath against her skin. His voice is just a deep, soothing resonance at first, a lullaby to calm her troubled heart, but after a moment she begins to make out what it is he's actually saying.

"It'll be okay, Swan. Even if you don't ever remember, I'll still be here. Always. I'll never leave you alone, love."

She pulls back to look into his eyes, stunned into silence by the force behind the softly spoken words. Her hands reach up to cup his face so she can study him, this beautiful man, and see if he's telling her the truth, because if there's one thing she's sure of about herself, it's that she knows when someone is lying. But in the depths of his vivid blues is nothing but love and sincerity. He means what he says, and she believes him. 

He's gorgeous, she realizes again, with his dark hair and his scruff and his sapphire eyes and his eyebrows, which seem to have a mind of their own. It makes her wonder, not for the first time since she woke up a stranger to herself….

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course, love, you can ask me anything," he answers, his finger toying with the ends of her hair.

"What do I look like?"

The question takes him aback for a moment, but then he helps her scoot to the edge of the bed and says, "Come with me."

For the first time since she found him sitting beside her bed, she notices he's wearing a hospital gown, same as her, tied tightly behind his back, much to her disappointment. He's probably got a great ass under that thing, if the rest of him is anything to go by. She wonders what the extent of his injuries are, and vaguely recalls someone telling her he was in surgery, but that he would be all right. 

He eases her up, one arm around her back and the other supporting her elbow as she stands and catches her breath. There's a moment where the world narrows to a pinpoint of light and her brain feels like it's been shoved into a washing machine on spin cycle, but then it stops and the room rights itself again. 

Killian moves gingerly beside her, jaw clenching as they take a tentative step and then another to the little en-suite. She clutches the IV pole with both hands as he guides her, and shuffles across the linoleum. Once inside the bathroom, he turns her toward the mirror and stands behind her, hands on her shoulders, his cheek nudging the side of her head, fine strands of her hair clinging to his whiskers. They make quite the picture, she thinks. 

"Hello beautiful," he murmurs to her reflection. "You've always been the most exquisite woman I've ever laid eyes on. Still are."

What she sees is a pale face with shadows beneath eyes that are somewhere between blue, gray, and green, and long, stringy blonde hair that could use a good washing. She takes a little comfort in realizing that she has her mother's chin, and her father's coloring, based on what she remembers from their brief visits. The resemblance gives her a sense of connection, makes her feel a little less… lost. Otherwise, she supposes she's pretty enough, but not necessarily beautiful. 

But then, she looks up to find Killian looking back at her with unadulterated adoration in his eyes, and she wonders if maybe she really is as beautiful as he says. Her heart rate picks up speed when he smiles at her, little dimples peeking out from his cheeks, and she marvels at the wonder of him, this stranger she married, who makes her feel like she is the sun around which he revolves. She marvels at her desire to touch him and know him, and the little thrill that runs down her spine at the prospect of learning him.

She turns and reaches up to stroke her fingertips ever so lightly across the cut on his cheek that is sure to leave a scar. 

"What happened to us? she asks softly.

His gaze drifts downward, expression unbearably sad, and he answers, gripping her hand and holding it to his face like he's afraid to let it go. "It was snowing. We stopped at a stop sign and you unbuckled your seatbelt to get something from the back seat. The snow plow hit us from behind. Driver wasn't looking."

He swallows hard and there are tears shining in his eyes that make them even bluer than she would've imagined possible, and then he continues, "Emma, you were… I was so scared when I saw you, and I couldn't move to get to you. I couldn't…."

"It wasn't your fault," she says, wrapping her arms around him, forgetting his injuries for a moment. And even as he hisses a little in pain, he doesn't allow her to pull away. 

"What about you? Where are you hurt?" she asks, words muffled into his neck as he holds her close to him.

"A few broken ribs, some bumps and bruises, nothing to worry about, love," he replies, brushing it off with a wobbly smile.

"But they told me you were in surgery the other day."

"Yes, well…" he scratches behind his ear in a way that reminds her of an adorable puppy, "it seems one of my ribs pierced one of my lungs, but I'm all mended now, so no worries."

It makes her sad to think that he had to endure that alone, and she wants to say something, anything to make it better, but if there are words that could do that, they are as lost to her as her entire life before waking in this very room. 

What comes out of her mouth instead is, "Why would you want to stay with me when I can't even remember you?" And suddenly she can't look him in the eye, because she doesn't want to chase him away, but she's also afraid that if he stays, he'll find she's not the same anymore and maybe he won't like whoever she is now. Maybe in the end, he'll leave, and maybe she's already attached enough to know that it'll break her fragile heart.

With one finger, he tilts her chin up and smiles down at her. "I made a vow to you and I meant it. I'm in this for the long haul. If that means starting over, then I will start over. And when I win your heart again, Emma, and I will win it," he adds with a smug little smirk, "it'll be because you want me."

She is speechless, searching his face for any trace of a lie and finding none. She thinks his quest to win her heart (again) may not be as difficult as he imagines. He's halfway there already. Maybe more, if she's being honest, but it scares her a little (a lot) to trust him, even if her instincts are telling her it's okay. 

The simple act of walking those few steps to the en-suite, and the not so simple act of sharing a few emotional moments with a husband she doesn't know, has made her unbearably weary, and she has to stifle the urge to sit and rest on the lid of the toilet seat.

He reads her like an open book, tucking her hair behind her ear ever so sweetly, and says, "Come, let's get you back to bed." And then he waggles his eyebrows in a comically suggestive way that makes her bite her lip and giggle like a teenage girl with a crush. 

When she is all settled in her bed and fighting to keep her eyes open, she manages to murmur, "You get some rest too, okay."

"As you wish," he answers, and it's the last thing she hears before she falls asleep. In her sleep-addled brain, it sounds a lot like "I love you."

**********

They've been home for two weeks, and Emma is itching in her own skin, restless and anxious and certain she is a burden to everyone.

Killian has been supportive and loving. He seems to have the instinctive sense of knowing when she needs space and when she doesn't, even when she hasn't said a word. Her first night back, he gave her their bedroom and politely headed for the guest room. She woke him a few hours later, screaming out through the nightmare that crept into her sleep. After that, she asked him to stay with her, and he's been there every night, holding her through the bad dreams without complaint and without expectation of anything more. 

Their home and everything in it is at first a journey of discovery. Her wardrobe consists of mainly plaid, which makes her wrinkle her nose and wonder about her past life. Did she have some kind of plaid fetish? She tries, really tries, to wear some of it and pretend she's okay with it, because there are worse problems in her world, and the world at large for that matter, than plaid. But what she wouldn't give for a pair of jeans and a simple sweater.

Almost everything is new to her, including the host of friends who've come by bringing casseroles and well-wishes and invitations for lunch (what is Granny's anyway) and expectant, hopeful looks, which are quickly replaced with disappointment when she doesn't remember who they are. (It's a small town, and she feels as if every single resident has trekked through her living room in the past week.) She has barely (re)learned her own address or how to get to the local grocery store. (It's within walking distance. Neither she, nor Killian, are ready to tackle driving again.)

Her parents and her (much) younger brother, Neal, have been by many times, usually loaded with photos and ready answers to any questions she has about the stranger she used to be. Her mom is a bit smothering, but Emma can't complain too much when she can clearly see how much her mother loves her. It's just, her mom's unfailing optimism and hope for Emma's recovery is too much to take sometimes. Her dad and Neal seem to have settled on the fact that they are all starting over again, much to Emma's relief. But her mom keeps pushing for Emma to remember, and Emma just feels like a failure because she can't.

(Killian intervenes every time, just when Emma is about to break under the strain of her mother's latest hope speech. The man is too good to be true sometimes.)

So she's home, and physically healed, and she's got a wonderful man in her life that is far more to her than she ever could've dreamed. But home is a strange place full of strange things that don't seem to fit her at all, and it's all she can do not to run away. The only anchor keeping her there is him, she thinks. He is her compass in the midst of unfamiliar seas. 

She's in the kitchen when it happens, the breakdown she's tried to pretend hasn't been building inside her ever since she came home. The window above the sink is a frame for a star filled winter sky, a crescent moon shining down on the snow in the back yard. It's a brief moment of peace staring out that window, the calm before the storm. Then she flips on the light and sees herself reflected in the glass, the shadows beneath her eyes, the downturn of her lips and the plaid flannel of her pajama top, and she turns away. 

All she wants is a glass of juice, but every damn time, she opens the wrong cupboard door and finds plates instead of glasses, and who the hell puts the plates next to the sink anyway? She is more than done with being a stranger in her own home, a character in a play someone else has written on a set someone else has designed. So she breaks, barely aware of the stream of curse words flowing from her mouth as she hurls ugly green crockery to the tile floor beneath her feet. 

Killian is there in the space of a few thousand rapid fire heartbeats, collecting her in his arms as she drops the last plate with a dull thud and sinks into him. He murmurs words of comfort into her hair while she cries, and she wonders at his infinite patience with her. 

"I'm sorry," she says with a sniff, while he swipes at her tears with his thumb.

"You've nothing to be sorry for, love. Just talk to me, please."

"I hate those plates," she replies, laughing a little at how foolish it sounds now that she's said it out loud. But once she's started, it's like the tap has been turned on and the words flow freely. "And I hate how the kitchen is arranged and I hate my clothes, and I hate that ugly bluebird painting in the living room."

"Then we'll get new plates," he says with a tender smile, "and we'll get you some new clothes, and we'll toss that painting in the nearest rubbish bin. Whatever you need to feel at home, Emma, that's what we'll do."

"You wouldn't mind if I changed things?" She is in awe of this man, always and forever. 

"My love, you can rearrange the whole world to your liking if you wish. I've no doubt you are capable of it."

He is so steadfast, his love and support so enduring, that it takes her breath away every time she is confronted with the evidence of it. She doesn't know what it was like before, but she knows that the Emma she is now is scared and vulnerable and uncertain of her worthiness in the face of the depth of his love.

"What about… doesn't it bother you that I'm still afraid of the dark?"

"Of course not. I'll give you a handful of stars for a nightlight if you want. I'll just reach up and pull them down for you," he says, gesturing toward the window and the expanse of navy sky beyond that made her feel such peace only moments before. "Anything you need, love, I'll find a way to get it for you."

He means it. Of course he does. It's baffling to her, in the most beautiful way, that he could love her so much, but her doubts are starting to fade. He's the only thing that makes sense to her in the midst of her crazy, blank slate of a life. It's only with him that she knows who she is, so she tells him.

"You've done it, you know?"

"Done what, love?" he asks, stroking her hair away from her face, his thumb finding its place in the little dent in her chin.

"Won my heart," she answers, palm coming up to rest against his cheek, new tears forging a path toward her chin. "The only time I don't feel lost is when you're with me."

He smiles, so sweet and tender, and then he kisses her until she's breathless and weak-kneed, and she thinks, that maybe just maybe, the heart never forgets.

**Author's Note:**

> Just thought I should add that after I was in a car accident when I was 19, there were a few months where I was afraid of the dark and had to sleep with a light on or else I would have nightmares. (Not a fun thing for my college roommates I'm sure, but they were very kind about it.) It was a weird after affect, I guess, but that's why I gave Emma the same experience. 
> 
> Also, as you probably recognized, some of the lines from the fic are borrowed directly from the show and are not mine. 
> 
> I have a whole headcanon for events preceding this fic, which I will probably not get a chance to write, but if anyone is curious, leave a comment and I'll sum it up as best I can. Thanks for reading.


End file.
